As I Lay Dying (but Not Really)
by LaurenIsCool
Summary: Joly finds his friend sick in bed and, in true hypochondriatic fashion, launches into soothsaying doctor-mode. Fluff and cuteness ahead.


**Cute little fluffy drabble for Tumblr user sparkerss, who gave me the prompt:**

_**Joly goes to visit Combeferre and finds him sick in bed and decides that the best thing to do is to nurse him back to health so that he doesn't die from the plague.**_

**Enjoy! x**

"Combeferre," shouted a particularly loud Joly as he burst into his friend's apartment, "I need to borrow your 20th Century Medical Malpractice Lawsuits textbook!"

No response. He looked around only to find the spotless living room abandoned. That's strange, considering the fact that it's 7:22 on a Tuesday night, and Combeferre is always sitting on the coffee table covered in heaps of books and papers at 7:22 on Tuesday nights. _Always._ Joly furrowed his brow.

"Combeferre?" He called out again, walking up to his bedroom door and knocking lightly.

A groan came out from the inside. "Can I come in?" He asked carefully.

"Fine," came the quiet reply.

Joly almost fainted upon seeing Combeferre. He was lying on his bed, tangled in his sheets and sweating bullets. His face was red and his eyes were closed. "'Ferre!" Joly shouted, launching himself at him, but only after whipping out a medical mask he conveniently carried with him at all times and putting it on his own face. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I'm fine, really," he rasped, "I've just got a sore throat is all. It shou-MPH" The sound of his voice was stopped abruptly as a thermometer was shoved into his mouth.

"A sore throat, you say? Goodness gracious, Combeferre, if I had known you were so deathly ill I would have come over much earlier! Although I must say that given the option of entering a sick man's home I would probably opt out of coming… No matter, though. You poor dear. Have you been sleeping well?"

"Mm-hmm" was all Combeferre could manage in response around the thermometer.

The thermometer beeped and Joly took it out of his mouth, only to let out a shrill screech and throw it against the wall. "102.7!" He exclaimed, "Combeferre, I don't mean to put you in a panic or anything, because everything is going to be fine, but are you religious? Because if so I need to get a priest on the line, stat, so you can get your last rites."

"Calm down, Joly."

"It's okay, it's okay, everything is going to be okay," Joly stammered, his words coming out faster than he could think, "You probably still have a couple days left to live. You can get a lot done in that time right? Oh, not in your state, you poor, fading soul, you're on the brink of death, aren't you? Just stay with me, Combeferre; don't go into the light! I'm begging you. Stay with me. Perhaps, by some miracle, you'll be able to pull through, you just need to relax. Do you need anything? Water? Antibiotics? I'm sure I could find Father Marcelin somewhere to deliver you an Anointing of the Sick and a final Eucharist." Combeferre could tell by his shaking that Joly was giving an honest-to-goodness effort not to cry.

"I'm going to be alright," answered the sick man calmly.

A tear came to Joly's eye. He took his friend's hand in his own and gave a weak smile that he couldn't see behind the mask. "Of course you are." Both men could tell that Joly didn't mean the words, but only Combeferre found it all amusing.

He coughed weakly, making Joly jump and reach into his bag to pull out disinfecting wipes. "There, there, sweetheart," he cooed, swiping the cloth over both their hands. He then produced a throat light from the bag. "Open."

Combeferre dutifully opened his mouth and let out a sustained "aaah" so his friend could get a good look at him. Joly's hand started to tremble.

"Anything out of the ordinary, doc?"

"I'm ninety-nine percent sure you have Scarlet Fever. Or the Mumps. Perhaps extremely severe Mononucleosis, but I'm betting on the Scarlet Fever. I'm so sorry, Combeferre, but I believe it's terminal."

He nodded in response, feigning thoughtfulness.

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do for you at this point. Would you like some morphine to dull the pain?"

Instead of asking why the hell Joly carried morphine around with him, he just asked for some Advil, which the young medic promptly fetched along with a glass of water.

"I should probably call the others to… to… you know…" He was badly struggling for words at his point, and he was crying openly, "Say their last… good… goodbyes." His face was redder than Combeferre's, and scrunched up with grief.

"Perhaps I should just be left to expire here peacefully with you," suggested the 'invalid,' not wanting to cause a scene, although he was more than sure that his friends would ignore Joly's frantic calls anyway, as they happened on at least a weekly basis.

"Oh, Combeferre!" He wailed, throwing himself upon Combeferre in a shaking hug before he realized his mistake would probably lead to him sharing his friend's horrible fate and almost instantly jumped back. Combeferre's hand found his friend's and gripped it lightly, making small circles with his thumb. The irony that he, the sick one, was comforting his hysterical friend was not lost on him as he smiled to himself. "I love you so much, my dear friend, please know that. Alas, comrade, as your life slips away, always remember that you are loved. You have served our revolution well and with all your heart, and that is all anyone could ever ask of you. I'm so sorry your precious life must be cut short like this, but you are taking it like a man. I always knew you would. You're so brave, Combeferre! One of the bravest men I've ever met. And the smartest! Your wit could rival that of Enjolras; though during your short life you used it alongside his in order to spark a revolution. Truly admirable. And 'lo, as you lay here dying, remember all the good times we've had! I will treasure the memories we have created for the rest of my life."

"Joly?" Combeferre muttered, drifting off slowly into sleep.

"Yes, my most treasured friend?"

"Be quiet."

"Okay."


End file.
